Exit Wound
by Chalkboard Dragonfly
Summary: Love (or the idea of it) from afar, or perhaps, on the other side of a mirror. One-shot.


He had kept his promise; Raoul would never forget Christine Daaé. Even if he had tried, he could not have done it. She was not always at the forefront of his thoughts, but she had been a permanent resident of his mind for years. Sometimes, he would see her face as he fell asleep at night, and wonder how it had changed now that they were truly grown; perhaps it was a bit thinner. Sometimes he would hear a faint echo of her voice, and reason that it only could have grown more beautiful over time. Even when speaking, her voice was lovely.

She was out there in the world, and it was both a comfort and torture to know it. In the brief time he had spent in her presence, Raoul had known what it was to be truly understood by another human being. He suspected that most people never experienced such profound acceptance, and so he considered himself fortunate. It only seemed unfair that they were separated by circumstance. Two people, connected as they were, should be together always. It was not to be, however, so Raoul filled his life with his naval career. He would go interesting places, and do interesting things. Yes, he would go to the Arctic, and should he ever cross paths with Christine again, at least he would have a few worthwhile tales for her. No one appreciated a good story quite like she did. And if they never met again, his life would not have been a waste. She was out there, and that alone was worth something.

* * *

Erik had believed in _her_ long before he had known her name, or had the faintest idea what she looked like. Somewhere in the world, there existed someone he could love completely; someone who might come to love him, too. The last bit was thoroughly ridiculous, he knew; there was very little about him that was worth loving, but he still hoped for it desperately. He felt it in his bones. It was the only bit of personal superstition he'd allowed himself to keep over the years, though even that had waned in the past decade or so. He suspected that should he ever meet her, it would lead nowhere, or only to heartache, but the idea would not desert him completely.

Then, Christine Daaé had entered his life. He had not recognized her at first. What was one more pretty face? One more singer not fulfilling her potential? Girls like Christine were hardly unique at the Opera. It was not even the gentle nature she displayed at every turn that drew him to her. No, it was her persistent melancholy. Her eyes were very pretty, clear blue surrounded by long golden lashes, but they always seemed a little sad, and he wanted to know why. A light had been extinguished in her at some point, and one day, he realized he would do anything to set it ablaze again. With that thought he had known the truth; _she_ existed after all, and was only separated from him by a mirror. He loved her, and maybe, just maybe, he could make her love him, too.

* * *

Life had not been completely awful since her father's death, but it was not happy, either. Christine did not want to be here. She did not care about music, except for the sake of her father's memory. His promise of sending the Angel of Music had never come to fruition. She was only at the Opera because she did not know where else to go, or what else to do. She found herself thinking of Raoul more and more often. How much better she would feel with her truest friend by her side. It had only been a childhood summer, and one brief visit a few years later, but it had been the most intense friendship she'd ever had. She worried that if they did meet again, she could never express to him how much he meant to her. It was inappropriate, and perhaps a little insane to keep him so close to her heart all these years. At least she knew he existed. He was out there in the world, somewhere, and that was better than nothing. So she went through the motions of her life, her hope for a heavenly messenger dying, her hope of being reunited with Raoul a distant dream. She felt it all so keenly, and paradoxically, it numbed her.

And then it had happened, a faint voice singing through the walls, insinuating itself into her brain. If this distant dream of her father's was coming to pass, how far away could her own, smaller dream of Raoul truly be? Even if they never met again, at least she had her Angel, and should they meet again, she would have quite the story for Raoul. He was out there, and for the first time in long time, the thought made her smile.

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I've been combating Christmas music by binging on They Might Be Giants. The title is from "Ana Ng."


End file.
